Family Portrait
by Anderea
Summary: *Updated- Valentine* From the child whose innocence has been shattered for the sake of the world, to the devoted sister who promised her brother that she'd love him forever, to the bitter man who cannot break away from his youngest sibling's shadow...
1. I. BROKEN

Disclaimer: None of the OSC characters belong to me (obviously. Why else would I be writing a disclaimer?), nor do I claim they do. Additionally, I do not make money off my writings (pity. Cash is good, especially for jobless fourteen-year-olds like me). In fact, I do not make money, period, so _please_ don't sue.  
  
Author's Note: The fanfic you're about to read is one-third of a "trilogy" of short stories, each about one of the Wiggin children- Ender, Valentine, or Peter. You should be able to tell which of the three the speaker is in each fic. If you can't, then either a) you have no deductive skills whatsoever or b) I'm a failure as a writer. Sorry for all the formal talk in my story- have a tendency to do that in my more "philosophical" works. Now, without further ado, I present to you...  
  
  
Family Portrait  
  
BROKEN  
  
Everyone stares at me now. I suppose they have to right to, but still....  
  
It becomes a pattern after a while: First come the aforementioned stares, then open-mouthed recognition, a brief bout of disbelief, and finally, the whispers. Always the same pattern, paraphrased and repeated and _seen_ so often that it has fallen into the void of meaninglessness, shaped by an indistinct blur of eyes and lips and awe and words.  
  
"Oh look there's Ender he's standing right there why doesn't he smile what makes you think he'd smile for _you_, dumbass take a picture, quick, ask for his autograph before he leaves look at him he looks much younger than he did in the news vids and...."  
  
Sometimes it makes me want to laugh. I mean, it's almost funny, watching them exclaim over me with that light in their eyes, murmur between themselves, giggling, watching, triumphant in being "privileged enough to meet Ender Wiggin," like I'm some...   
  
Like I'm some _hero_.   
  
That thought comes as a slap in the face, even now on this ship, two hours away from Earth (from the little lake in North Carolina...), two hours away from my past (Bonzo's eyes still haunt me in my dreams, along with his bloodied face), two hours away from the things I never want to be again.  
  
Hero. Who gave me that title anyway? Because I'm not a hero. Quite the opposite, in fact.  
  
I'm a mass-murderer.  
  
I suppose I'm a very _special_ murderer. I mean, how many of us xenocidal maniacs get a worldwide holiday on their birthdays? How many of us get assemblies and admiration, fiestas and fanmail? How many of us are given authority, respect, power beyond any belief?  
  
And yet, despite the glitter of false fronts and distorting veils of public opinion, the fact remains that I'm a murderer, a gun that the IF trained to point at the buggers. Not a hero.  
  
God, not a hero.  
  
I think Peter hates me for this. Hates me for holding the same prestige, the same status that he's been after forever, hates me for lacking the strength of mind, strength of heart, to do anything with it.  
  
And Valentine.... Valentine loves me for the same reason, but through a different line of reasoning- she believes that I refrain from improper use of power because of an active sense of morality, when the truth is I simply don't have the energy to care.  
  
Val. Sweet, gentle, childlike Val, still so innocent despite years of living with Peter. She practically raised me, you know. Taught me arithmetic. Cleaned up my orange juice spills. Made me cake for my birthday (it tasted horrendous- she'd added too much baking soda- but it's the thought that counts).   
  
Maybe that's why.  
  
Maybe that's why she can't bear to believe that I've changed.  
  
Because more than anyone else, more than Graff, who broke me, more than Mazer, who put me together again into a flawed whole, Val sees the differences between who I was and who I am, simply because she knew me before Battle School.   
  
And who I am now scares her.  
  
So, in order to ignore the monster I've become, she distorts me. She describes me in glowing terms to whoever'll listen, rattles off baby stories about me, smiles and laughs and makes me look a little better, a little less like a soldier and a little more like a _human_ in everyone's eyes.   
  
Hell, maybe she even believes her own words once in a while.  
  
And most of the time I can accept this, I can accept that she wants to pretend to others that I'm still Andrew "Ender" Wiggin, five years old and unscathed by Battle School, but sometimes...  
  
Sometimes I want to scream.  
  
What about me? I want to ask. Who's going to distort me for me?  
  
Who's going to hold my hand when I look in the mirror and tell me that yes, you're _that_ little boy standing there, wide-eyed and young, not the little boy who killed two humans and thousands of Formics before his thirteenth birthday, not the little boy who stupidly obeyed his teachers up to the point of near death, and most certainly not a murderer?  
  
Who's going to tell me that it wasn't my fault that Stiltson wouldn't leave me alone, that Bonzo wouldn't let me surpass him, that I didn't even bother to guess that I was killing the buggers from my safe little commander's chair on Eros?  
  
Who's going to tell me that I will someday find redemption on this Formic planet I'm going to, someday find a place to set down these memories I carry around, someday find a way to reduce this mind-numbing burden that wears away at my mind, tears at my conscience?   
  
And for the love of God, who's going to tell me that, despite the blood on my hands, despite the incriminating guilt, despite the utter _wrongness_ of what I did...  
  
Who's going to tell me that I'm still human...?  
  
...  
  
Everyone stares at me now. I guess they have a right to, but still....  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Short Author's Note: In a nutshell: please REVIEW! I need it. Thank you. 


	2. II. BACKUP

Disclaimer: None of the OSC characters belong to me (obviously. Why else would I be writing a disclaimer?), nor do I claim they do. Additionally, I do not make money off my writings (pity. Cash is good, especially for jobless fourteen-year-olds like me). In fact, I do not make money, period, so _please_ don't sue.  
  
Author's Note: The fanfic you're about to read is one-third of a "trilogy" of short stories, each about one of the Wiggin children- Ender, Valentine, or Peter. You should be able to tell which of the three the speaker is in each fic. If you can't, then either a) you have no deductive skills whatsoever or b) I'm a failure as a writer. Sorry for all the formal talk in my story- have a tendency to do that in my more "philosophical" works. Now, without further ado, I present to you...  
  
  
Family Portrait  
  
BACKUP  
  
Once upon a time, there was a brilliant little boy named Andrew who went to Battle School and defeated the humans' dastardly enemy, the detested buggers, and came back a hero.  
  
That's what people say. And although it's far from the truth, it's what people choose to believe. After all, it's Ender Wiggin, the legend, that they want to idolize, not Andrew Wiggin, the boy. Not the little boy who lost his simplicity, his family, his planet, for the sake of saving our lives. Not the child hiding behind that impenetrable soldier's face, whose broken, twisted soul lurks behind eyes still wide with youth.  
  
Doesn't anyone pay attention? Doesn't anyone _see_?  
  
And the answer is, as it always has been, obviously not. Otherwise they wouldn't treat him like they do. For they mob him wherever he goes, asking questions, begging for autographs, hands and fingers tugging at his clothes until his expression changes from forced patience to tiredness and I want to throw my arms around him and scream for them to leave him alone, God, just leave him _alone_....  
  
What right do they have to do this? To take away the quiet that he so desperately needs to heal? To demand more pieces of him than he has to give? To-  
  
...Then again, what right do I have to be saying these things? Whatever makes me think that I hold my place in Ender's heart any longer? After all, I betrayed him. I convinced him to go to Command School when all he truly wanted was to rest, to _forget_. So, in truth, I'm just as bad as the admiring throngs who stalk him, only I don't want his fame.  
  
I want his trust.  
  
I suppose that's part of the reason I'm here on this ship, careening away from Earth at just under lightspeed. Part of the reason. The other part... is hard to explain, even to myself. Even harder to understand.  
  
Peter doesn't understand. It's ironic, almost. One of the most brilliant minds ever conceived in the history of mankind, and he still doesn't understand what it means to _love_. That's why, when I announced my decision to go into space, he taunted me. Taunted me for still caring about a brother I haven't really known for over half a decade. Taunted me for wanting to re-create the bits and pieces of the life we once had, Ender and I.  
  
And yet, that tone that slowly crept behind his voice, even as those barbed words slid out of his mouth, like snakes out of their resting place.... Incredulous. Jaded. The most awkward, the most un-Peter-like emotions I had ever seen him show in the years I've known him.   
  
Maybe he only sounded that way because he was losing Demosthenes, who he'd spent so much time fabricating, even more time shaping. Maybe the confusion stalking behind his nonchalant features came from the suddenness of my decision, the jerky abruptness of my words. But I keep thinking, I keep _hoping_....  
  
Maybe someday he'll miss me. Maybe he'll wish for the verbal sparring games that we used to play during his bouts of sporadic irritation. Maybe someday, Locke, while tackling the delicate game of politics, will wish that Demosthenes was around at his side again, will wish that _Valentine_ was at his side again.  
  
But what am I thinking? Peter doesn't miss. Peter doesn't even feel. No, he's all offhand cruelty and acerbic laughter, mocking cynicism and casual derision. Nothing like Ender. Nothing like Ender, nothing like....  
  
At least, that's what I keep on telling myself.   
  
He's changed. The little boy whose hand I used to hold as we crossed the street has changed into something...silent. Yes. Silent. A silent, exhausted child whose eyes are so much older than his body, who roams the decks of this too-small starship, searching for a peace that he can't seem to find, searching for a grain of truth in the lies that I speak for him.  
  
No. Not lies. Half-truths. Fabrications. For I continually pretend that he's still a boy, still my "little Enderpoo," and he willingly pretends with me, nods at the memories I reminisce, laughs when I laugh, smiles when I smile, because he believes it makes me happy.   
  
Only it doesn't.  
  
It makes me miserable. Because it reminds me of exactly how much of my brother I've lost, exactly how much of _himself_ Ender's lost.  
  
I want him back. I want the old Ender back, before Battle School.  
  
...And I suppose he wants me back, too. The old Valentine. Before Peter.  
  
Irony. She never fails to forcibly interject herself into my life.  
  
But despite these pessimistic thoughts, despite all evidence that points at the contrary, I believe, because it is the only thing I can bear to believe, that someday Ender will heal.   
  
Someday, he'll forget.   
  
Someday, he'll stop having the nightmares that keep him tossing and turning throughout the night, create the dark circles under his eyes in the mornings.   
  
Someday, he'll be able to watch the news broadcasts from Earth without looking bitter.  
  
Someday, he'll trust me again.  
  
And when he does, I'll be here. I'll be here to take his hand and we'll walk, together, yes, together, because he'd have healed enough to lead, and he'd trust me enough to stand beside him, and we'll walk off into the proverbial sunset and live happily ever after.  
  
That's why I'm here. Even if no one understands why. Even if I have to leave the planet I love. Even if I have to turn away from the parents who gave me life, from the brother who gave me power, I'm here.   
  
For Ender.  
  
For the part of him that still hopes, that's buried so deep inside of him that he doesn't even realize it exists. For the part of him that wants me to take his hand and walk him across the crowds of staring people, that needs me to reach past the whimsical fantasies that others have woven around his existence and touch the clarity lying below, to retell the tale of his life, but this time in truth.  
  
That, once upon a time, there was a brilliant little boy named Andrew who went to Battle School and came back with his soul shattered into a hundred thousand pieces, and although his sister loved him very, very much, she could do nothing but watch, and wait, and hope that the beautiful maiden Tyme, with her ethereal gaze, would someday mend the open wound he called his heart... 


End file.
